


Peeled Apples

by tunteeton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Three Garridebs Mention, kind of, mild panic attack, start of relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5976544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John is confused in a myriad of ways until he isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peeled Apples

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talitacortazar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talitacortazar/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to my dear friend [Meli](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talitacortazar/pseuds/talitacortazar)!

The concrete was wet and much closer to his face than he had expected it to be. This was not right, because hadn't he just been somewhere else? He groaned, not quite remembering. He was in a hurry, wasn't he? Something was coming down, something bad.

Wasn't it?

He really needed to be somewhere else. There wasn't time for all this concrete right now. It had to go away. He blinked, but the concrete didn't magically disappear. In fact, it was attacking him in crueler ways now.

The light shining off the wet asphalt hit his eyes like someone pointing a torch right at them. And there were darts, a thousand or so little needles poking at his head as if he had landed in the middle of a juniper bush. And then a pressure. Quite a lot of pressure, in fact. Moving over his back and his neck at a rapid speed. And then the bees came.

They were angry, and everywhere, and the noise they made swallowed everything else from the world. He might have made some noise himself, too, alarmed by the sudden rush of howling in his ears. He cowered down, waiting for the first stings.

They never came. But the bees became louder and louder until some of them became sounds became words became Sherlock, yelling at his ear. This took some processing.

Sherlock.

Sherlock.

_Fuck._

He groaned and rolled over.

"Get the fuck off me," he demanded, or tried to, because it was kind of difficult when his vision was blocked by a dark coat rolling over his face and muffling his voice and Sherlock's shrill voice blocking his words.

"No," declared that voice, and then the coat was removed and Sherlock's magnificent wild face came to almost-focus, his nostrils flaring like those of a race horse. And John groaned again, because damn if the sunlight didn't make a number of his eyes. Sherlock was speaking. Something about staying still, about a fractured something. But John couldn't concentrate on his words, because now there was a dark shape, suddenly looming right over his friend's shoulder, and his fingers curled into fists before he had even drawn another breath. _Danger._

Sherlock noticed. Of course he did, but instead of turning around he just pushed John's shoulders harder into the concrete.

"Pedestrian," Sherlock snarled. "Sixty to seventy years old, been out for drinks with a couple of mates, too curious for his own good and not your problem right now. Stop struggling you moron. The ambulance is coming."

Ambulance? He didn't need a damn ambulance. What he did need was getting Sherlock to stop manhandling him. And his hand was making a number of itself.

Stupid stupid _stupid_ hand.

No use trying to hide that from his genius observer friend, whose eyes were even now zigzagging over John's trembling body. He closed his eyes. This was embarrassing.

"There's no threat left," Sherlock's voice said, softer now. "Since somebody decided to incapacitate the suspect with this bare thick idiotic skull."

Oh. 

Yes.

Right.

Carefully, John opened his eyes again. Sherlock didn't look impressed, but then the rest of the bees became sirens and he had to grimace the fear away. Priorities, Watson. They had unfinished business here.

"Was gonna hit you," he pointed out. "With a goddamn brick."

It had been a good brick too. A respectable brick. Red as blood, as a warning, sharp-edged and swinging way too close to Sherlock's precious brain. The man had been quite a sprinter to carry it, concealed, while fleeing all the way from their meeting place at the gates to the Hyde Park.

"I know," Sherlock snarled. "Not that he had any chance of actually landing that hit. Now stay still you absolute disappointment of a doctor, don't you know anything about head injuries?"

But the sirens were close and for a second John was somewhere else, lying on something that was not the corner of Holland Street and Gordon but hot hot sand and pebbles the size of an eyeball. Everything went dark and there was a bullet in his shoulder there was a bullet in his shoulder _there was a bullet in his shoulder_ , and then Sherlock slapped him.

It wasn't as much the slap, a gentle one as far as slaps went, but the feel of smooth leather on his face that brought him back.

"London, John," Sherlock reminded him, voice stern but his eyes betraying a concern John didn't want to see. He drew a shaky breath and nodded once, like a soldier, and then there was a strecher next to him and John _hated_ this part.

Sherlock spoke with someone, professional and brief. John closed his eyes, the greatest act of rebellion he was able to manage at the moment, and then the stretcher rose and he was being carried and _fuck_.

It was wrong and humiliating and if he could have he would have gone and found the brick and finished the job himself. He'd take a beating for Sherlock Holmes any day of the week, but this moment afterwards, when Sherlock was all soft lines and hushed tones and solemn seriousness, this he couldn't bear.

They spent the ride to the hospital in silence.

\--

John was allowed home the very same evening to his great disappointment. Because now he was alone with Sherlock and his headache, a very unfortunate pair in the best of circumstances. Sherlock was too careful, too considerate, and John couldn't think of anything more unsettling than that. It had been nearly two hours, three cups of perfectly made tea and not a single insult. If this went on much longer, one of them would implode out of the sheer anticipation. Surely it would be better by tomorrow?

It wasn't better by tomorrow. John woke to watchful eyes staring at him – a frequent affair during the night – and an inviting smell of coffee. He wasn't sure which one was worse.

"John Hamish Watson, 221B Baker Street, still not dead," he intoned, knowing Sherlock would demand the information in about two microseconds.

"Good," answered his friend's unreadable voice. "I made breakfast. Take your pills."

"Yes," said John, because what the hell else were you supposed to say when Sherlock Holmes mothered you and made you breakfast? Surely not thanks?

"Scrambled eggs. And toast."

"And I trust they're not poisoned."

"Shut up, John."

And that felt a bit better. John hid his grin into a grimace and stalked downstairs.

But Sherlock had indeed made breakfast. Apart from the promised scrambled eggs and toast there was freshly squeezed juice which John immediately grew suspicious of – a sure sign he was feeling better. And apples. Pre-peeled, pre-sliced apples. What the fuck was he meant to do with those? Sherlock followed him silently with soft cat steps. John turned around, only a bit slower than he would have liked to.

"It was just one brick," he said, half a question and half a plead. 

Sherlock poured them both coffee and sat down by the table, his expression dark. "Yes. And no, of course. Tell me, John, would you have done anything differently if it had been a gun he was holding and not a piece of stone?"

That made him stop. Because the answer was immediate and obvious, and just a bit alarming. He took his coffee and his seat and trained his answer into complete neutrality. Lying to Sherlock Holmes was an exercise in futility even when in full mental capacity.

"No."

Something broke in his friend's composure. His shoulders sagged, his hands stirred in his lap, but he never took his eyes off John's face. This wasn't fine at all.

"And for your information, I'd still do it," John told him before he could think himself out of this. "I'd do it if it was a nuclear bomb they were holding."

And suddenly Sherlock was twenty years younger and terrified. "Why, John?"

"Because there's just one Sherlock Holmes in the world," John told him. "And there never will be another."

Sherlock shook his head in a fierce protest. "Is this something my brother made you do?"

John sniffed. "Of course not. Mycroft can't move my arse if I'm not interested in moving it."

"But there's only one John Watson as well," his friend cried out, clearly missing the point.

"Well yes," John tried explaining, "but I'm not irreplaceable. We have always lost soldiers, and we can still win the war. It's the generals you have to take care of." 

"For fuck's sake John this isn't a war!" Sherlock yelled. "And what the hell you mean you aren't indispensable?"

Sherlock never shouted at him like this. Sherlock never cursed. Never. John pinched his nose in confusion. If at first you don't succeed --

"No. I'm nothing special. You've told me so yourself many a time. I'm not the genius, I'm not the crime-solver extraordinaire. If one of us has to take a brick to the face, of course it's going to be me. It's what I bring to this partnership."

"Partnership?" Now Sherlock looked just hurt.

"Friendship," John conceded.

Something complicated happened all over Sherlock's face. He went from hurt to angry to defeated to weirdly hopeful. It was the strangest thing John had ever seen, because usually Sherlock sported one of only three carefully cultivated expressions: bored, manic or concentrated.

Then he was moving, leaning over the table and before John understood what was happening his lips had stopped an inch away from John's own.

"Friendship?" Sherlock murmured, the ruined air from his lungs whispering against John's skin and _oh_.

It made sense now.

It was not a moment for long inner monologues, and he was a man of action in any case.

"Relationship," John decided, and closing that gap was the most natural thing to do.

And so much for the apples, peeled or otherwise.


End file.
